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<title>as many times as I blink, I’ll think of you by Ironic_Swag7782</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23974795">as many times as I blink, I’ll think of you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironic_Swag7782/pseuds/Ironic_Swag7782'>Ironic_Swag7782</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan Sims Needs a Hug, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Scars, Self-Harm, Tenderness, implied? i guess? like i didnt say explicitly 'this is self harm' but, its not hard to figure out, just bear in mind if that triggers u, like fr they both do</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:21:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23974795</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironic_Swag7782/pseuds/Ironic_Swag7782</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon knows, really, that he should be taking better care of them – Google informs him he should be moisturising his scars daily, but try as he might to do it alone, he just can’t reach them all. So he just… doesn’t. That’s where Martin comes in.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>395</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>tma fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>as many times as I blink, I’ll think of you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>full disclaimer: this is short as hell, unedited, and posted at 2:18 am. and i haven't written a fandom fic since october. so bear with on the quality.</p><p>Fun fact speaking from experience scars itch like MAD especially when they're healing. you can't even scratch it, unhygienic &amp; all that. don't take advice from jonathan 'who the fuck is self care' sims. </p><p>i got a new tumblr, @videogabe. come say hi!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They itch, more often than not these days. Almost as though every time he thinks about Prentiss, or the tense early days of the institute, or even try and do anything with his hands, his skin crawls. Again, he knows he shouldn’t scratch it, and he knows there are ways to reduce the itching and the visibility of his scars. </p><p>But… But he can’t. It’s not just the matter of not having anything to put on it – he had access to shops, before all this – rather, something more deep down stopping him. He gets busy, he puts it off, he walks past bottles of moisturizer at the shops, thinking of the horrible scars Melanie must have. Of her driving the awl into her own eyes. Of…</p><p>It didn’t matter. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing?” Jon asks – Martin’s sat on their bed, sleeves rolled up and a little bottle of cream by his side. </p><p>“Erm – moisturising?” Martin says back, wryly. “I got it from the corner shop, it’s got vitamin E and stuff in it, and --”</p><p>“No, I mean…” Jon trails off, not knowing how to finish his sentence. </p><p>“Oh,” Martin seems to get it, though. “They’re… old, and not as bad as yours, but…”</p><p>When Jon approaches him on the bed, a little surprised when Martin doesn’t roll his sleeves down, or pull away. He eyes are drawn to Martin’s forearms, where white lines mark his arms, old and almost set into his skin. </p><p>“Does it help?” Jon can’t stop himself but ask. </p><p>“Kind of, it makes them less dry,” Martin runs absent-minded fingers over the lines as he speaks. “Putting the cream in the fridge helps.” </p><p>Jon pauses awkwardly. </p><p>“Did you want to try?” Martin asks. Filling the silence. </p><p>“I, uh, can’t reach most of the spots.” </p><p>“Don’t be silly. Sit down.” </p><p>Jon does as he’s told, feeling Martin shift behind him, before Martin gets off the bed and takes Jon’s burned hand in his. Martin’s hands are always cold, he notes, especially in the middle of the night when they’re both awake, holding onto each other. </p><p>Martin takes a fairly generous scoop of his moisturiser, and begins applying it in gentle, soothing circles over Jon’s mottled hand – the contact alone makes him shiver, and Martin looks up apologetically. </p><p>“Sorry. If it’s too much just tell me to stop.” </p><p>“No, please don’t. It’s lovely.” </p><p>Martin smiles, seemingly to himself, as he continues rubbing the cream into Jon’s hand. The ache, ever-present, deep in his bones, seems to relinquish a little more, the more Martin massages his hand, and Jon wonders if that’s at least in part due to the comforting presence of Martin.<br/>
“Is that any better?” </p><p>“Yes,” He says, and means it. “Thank you. You always manage to make it better.” </p><p>“I don’t know about that,” Martin mutters, moving up to Jon’s shoulder. “Can you take your shirt off? If you’re okay with that?” </p><p>Jon nods and pulls his shirt over his head, exposing his chest to the mild chill of their little cabin, and his scar on his shoulder to Martin’s cool fingers. </p><p>“When…?” </p><p>“It was an accident,” At Martin’s sceptical look, he elaborates. “We took that bullet out of Melanie, Basira put her under some pretty strong sleep meds. She didn’t take very well to me slicing her leg open and… Well.” </p><p>“She stabbed you?” </p><p>Jon can’t help the dry chuckle that comes out instead of an answer, but Martin’s mildly horrified face and hands hovering above the old injury, like it might explode, is just too much to not laugh at. </p><p>“Well, yes, but I can hardly blame her.” He eventually decides on. </p><p>Martin huffs quietly, and returns to tending to Jon’s scar – somehow, on his shoulder, it feels just as heavenly as it did on his hand. Tension melts out of his shoulder, and he relaxes into Martin’s hands, not being able to help the quiet sigh of relief that slips out, eyes slowly slipping closed. He trusts Martin. </p><p>“Alright?” Martin prompts. </p><p>“Alright.” </p><p>Eyes still closed, Jon feels for Martin’s other hand, gripping it tight. Martin squeezes right back. </p><p>“Thank you, Jon, for letting me do this,” Before Jon can interject with his own thank yous, Martin continues. “I notice, you know, when you itch your hand or your neck, or when you try and ease the pain in your hand.” </p><p>Martin pulls his hands away from Jon’s shoulder, Jon taking that as a sign that he’s finished, pulling his shirt back on. </p><p>“I don’t know how you have the patience.” Jon says, but he’s smiling. </p><p>The look Martin gives him is full of so much history, it almost makes Jon recoil; he pictures every lonely statement, every cup of tea passed to him, unthinking, every across-the-room glance. And yet, he can’t pin an emotion to it. The sensation of Martin’s hand pressing close against his is all he can feel, and for a moment, they just stare at each other. </p><p>“You know I’ve always had it.” Martin eventually says, breaking the silence between them. “I can’t help but love you. Waking up with you every morning is a blessing, despite it all.” </p><p>Jon buries his face in Martin’s shoulder, suddenly rather embarrassed, inexplicably. </p><p>“I love you.” Martin says. </p><p>“I love you, too.” Jon says, back.</p>
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